Aunt And Niece Quotes

We wrap our arms around each other and we cry. We cry mother to daughter. We cry aunt to niece. We cry victim to victim. We cry survivor to survivor.

Before I am your daughter, your sister, your aunt, niece, or cousin, I am my own person, and I will not set fire to myself to keep you warm.

And the uncles, the aunts, the cousins, the nieces, the nephews, that lived in those walls, the gibbering pack of tree apes that said nothing, nothing, nothing and said it loud, loud, loud.

What did people do with enormous families? All those cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews. How did they keep them straight? How did they breathe at any sort of family function?

Oh, darling, I’m not alone.” Aunt Sookie smiles as she looks over at me. “I have a wonderful trio of young people back in my house, all of whom are like family to me. I have you here, and you’re more like a daughter to me than a niece.", Loving Summer by Kailin Gow

Citizens of Luna, I ask that you stop what you’re doing to listen to this message. My name is Selene Blackburn. I am the daughter of the late Queen Channary, niece to Princess Levana, and the rightful heir to Luna’s throne. You were told that I died thirteen years ago in a nursery fire, but the truth is that my aunt, Levana, did try to kill me, but I was rescued and taken to Earth. There, I have been raised and protected in preparation for the time when I would return to Luna and reclaim my birthright. In my absence, Levana has enslaved you. She takes your sons and turns them into monsters. She takes your shell infants and slaughters them. She lets you go hungry, while the people in Artemisia gorge themselves on rich foods and delicacies. But Levana’s rule is coming to an end. I have returned and I am here to take back what’s mine. Soon, Levana is going to marry Emperor Kaito of Earth and be crowned the empress of the Eastern Commonwealth, an honor that could not be given to anyone less deserving. I refuse to allow Levana to extend her tyranny. I will not stand aside while my aunt enslaves and abuses my people here on Luna, and wages a war across Earth. Which is why, before an Earthen crown can be placed on Levana’s head, I will bring an army to the gates of Artemisia. I ask that you, citizens of Luna, be that army. You have the power to fight against Levana and the people that oppress you. Beginning now, tonight, I urge you to join me in rebelling against this regime. No longer will we obey her curfews or forgo our rights to meet and talk and be heard. No longer will we give up our children to become her disposable guards and soldiers. No longer will we slave away growing food and raising wildlife, only to see it shipped off to Artemisia while our children starve around us. No longer will we build weapons for Levana’s war. Instead, we will take them for ourselves, for our war. Become my army. Stand up and reclaim your homes from the guards who abuse and terrorize you. Send a message to Levana that you will no longer be controlled by fear and manipulation. And upon the commencement of the royal coronation, I ask that all able-bodied citizens join me in a march against Artemisia and the queen’s palace. Together we will guarantee a better future for Luna. A future without oppression. A future in which any Lunar, no matter the sector they live in or the family they were born to, can achieve their ambitions and live without fear of unjust persecution or a lifetime of slavery. I understand that I am asking you to risk your lives. Levana’s thaumaturges are powerful, her guards are skilled, her soldiers are brutal. But if we join together, we can be invincible. They can’t control us all. With the people united into one army, we will surround the capital city and overthrow the imposter who sits on my throne. Help me. Fight for me. And I will be the first ruler in the history of Luna who will also fight for you.

And as the train whistled its imminent departure, a small girl wearing neat plaits and someone else's shoes climbed its iron stairs. Smoke filled the platform, people waved and hollered, a stray dog ran barking through the crowds. Nobody noticed as the little girl stepped over the shadowed threshold; not even Aunt Ada, who some might've expected to be sheperherding her orphaned niece towards her uncertain future. And so, when the essence of light and life that had been Vivien Longmeyer contracted itself for safekeeping and disappeared deep inside her, the world kept moving and nobody saw it happen.

When a homemaking aunt scolds a niece for following her evangelistic passion instead of domestic pursuits, her reply is interesting. First, she clarifies that God's individual call on her doesn't condemn those in more conventional roles. Then, she says she can no more ignore the cry of the lost than her aunt can the cry of her child.

Tristan’s Mom: What are these? Tristan: Your granddaughters. Tristan’s Dad: Don’t worry honey, you don’t look old enough to be a mother let alone a grandmother. Tristan’s Mom: Again with the flattery, thank you dear. Where did they come from? Tristan: Camie gave birth last night. Jeff: I didn’t know she was pregnant. Tristan: She wasn’t. It was a miracle. Tristan’s Mom: Do they have names? Tristan: Phineas and Ferb. Jeff: From the cartoon? Tristan’s Dad: That figures, he named the dog Scooby. Tristan’s Mom: They sound like boy names. Tristan: Mom! Shhh, you’ll give them a complex. Jeff: If that Ferb one climbs my legs again I’m drop kicking it. Tristan: That’s child abuse and I’ll press charges. Besides, they just miss their mom. Jeff: I’m calling CPS (cat protective services)… Tristan: What for? Jeff: Because you’re making your kids live in a broken home unnecessarily. Tristan: I’m not talking to you anymore. Jeff: Fine, as long as you to talk to her. Tristan: Back off. Jeff: Nope, not gonna do it. Tristan: I’m warning you man. Jeff: You miss her too. Tristan: Yeah, so? Jeff: So do something about it. Tristan: Happy? Last night was miserable and I think it’s too late. Jeff: You still have a 12 year old ace in the hole. Tristan: Saving it as a last resort. Tristan’s Dad: Honey, do you have a clue as to what they’re talking about? Tristan’s Mom: No and I don’t want one. Jeff: I’m just helping my nieces get their parents back together. Dude, it’s time. Make the call. Tristan: Alright, I did it. But I get the feeling I’m about to do business with the mob. I hope I don’t wake up with the head of my horse in bed with me tonight. Jeff: Well, a good father will do anything he can to protect his family, even if that means he runs the risk of sleeping with the fishes. Tristan: Okay girls, your aunt helped Daddy come up with a plan and if it works you should get to see Mommy today. Cross your paws, or claws, or whatever…just cross something for luck.

When you trace your genealogy, you find connections to many of the people and events that shaped history. History is not the story of some old irrelevant strangers. No. History is your story. Your family was there - your grandmothers and grandfathers, uncles and aunts, cousins, nephews and nieces. If not for them, you wouldn't even be here.

A bright haze seemed to lie over everything, and she had a feeling of unreality, but the scene itself looked almost unbelievably wholesome, like something out of a commercial. Just your average family sitting down to eat turkey, she thought. One slightly flustered aunt, worried that the peas will be mushy and the rolls burnt, one comfortable uncle-to-be, one golden-haired teenage niece and her baby sister. One blue-eyed boy-next-door type, one spritely girlfriend, one gorgeous vampire passing the vegetables. A typical American household.

In India, individual shame did not exist. Humiliation spread, as easily as oil on wax paper, to the entire family, even to distant cousins, uncles, aunts, nieces and nephews. The rumormongers made sure of that. Blame lay heavily in my chest. Had I not deserted my marriage, Radha would not have suffered so much, and Maa and Pitaji would not have been so powerless against an entire village.

I am a Grandmother, Mother, Aunt, Daughter, Niece, Wife and Sister, I am Every Woman.

Turning her attention back to her Aunt she sighed softly.  “I’d really like my security deposit back on this place, so if you do end up having to kill him… well…” Nabha laughed softly, patting her niece on the arm. “Don’t worry, I’ll do it outside.” “Good.”  Devon sighed with relief. That was one less thing to worry about.  “As long as we’re on the same page.

The tradition amongst the Targaryens had always been to marry kin to kin. Wedding brother to sister was thought to be ideal. Failing that, a girl might wed an uncle, a cousin, or a nephew, a boy a cousin, aunt, or niece. This practice went back to Old Valyria, where it was common amongst many of the ancient families, particularly those who bred and rode dragons. The blood of the dragon must remain pure, the wisdom went. Some of the sorcerer princes also took more than one wife when it pleased them, though this was less common than incestuous marriage. In Valyria before the Doom, wise men wrote, a thousand gods were honored, but none were feared, so few dared to speak against these customs.

All her life, she wanted a house and a garden and a room of her own. But tucked inside that want was something else: a family. Parents who smothered her with love. Siblings who teased because they cared. Grandparents, aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews—in her mind a family was a sprawling thing, an orchard full of roots and branches.

Down in sunny Mexico there lived an old aunt with four very pretty nieces. One day Pancho Villa and his gang of revolutionary bandits broke into their house. Accosting them on the patio the brigand said, “This place is in our possession and you are in our power.” “We are helpless!” one of the girls exclaimed, “and we must submit, but please spare poor old Aunt.” “Shut up!” snapped the aunt. “War is war!

The problem is, there is no geographical cure. No matter where we (Black American Folk) go, we are still too plugged into this place. Our cousins, grandmothers, aunts, nieces will be in this place. And the second we start looking at it as a "them" problem, we become another problem.

What she thinks is: this could have been me. Why not? A real girl, in a real house, with a mother and a father and a brother and a sister and an aunt and an uncle and a nephew and a niece and a cousin and all those other words for the map of people who love each other and stay together. The map called family. Growing up and growing old. Playing. Exploring. Like Pooh and Piglet. And then like the Famous Five. And then like Heidi and Anne of Green Gables. And then like Pandora, opening the great big box of the world and not being afraid, not even caring whether what’s inside is good or bad. Because it’s both. Everything is always both. But you have to open it to find that out.

In India, individual shame did not exist. Humiliation spread, as easily as oil on wax paper, to the entire family, even to distant cousins, uncles, aunts, nieces and nephews.

Brains," remarked Cap'n Bill, "is of all kinds and work different ways. But I've noticed that them as thinks that their brains is best is often mistook.

Her tears are now falling even harder than my own. We wrap our arms around each other and we cry. We cry mother to daughter. We cry aunt to niece. We cry victim to victim. We cry survivor to survivor.

Vyvian,” my uncle persists, “I’ve made up my mind about this. I’m not going to change it.” Silence. “Very well.” My aunt sighs with deep disapproval. “I can see you are quite decided at present, but at least let her spend the next week or so with me. It makes perfect sense, as Valgard is on the way from here to the University.” “All right,” he capitulates wearily. “Well,” she says, her tone brightening, “I’m glad that’s settled. Now, if my niece and nephews would kindly stop crouching under the window and come in and join us, it would be lovely to see everyone.” Gareth, Trystan and I give a small start. Rafe turns to me, raises his eyebrows and grins.

Why didn't we put Stalin on trial? I'll tell you why...In order to condemn Stalin, you'd have to condemn your friends and relatives along with him. The people closest to you...our neighbor Yuri turned out to have been the one who informed on my father. For nothing, as my mother would say...When Yeltsin came to power, I got a copy of his file, which included several informants' reports. It turned out that one of them had been written by Aunt Olga...his niece...a beautiful woman, full of joy...It's not just Stalin and Beria, it's also our neighbor Yuri and beautiful Aunt Olga...

Greg looked at Aunt Dahlia. “You need to leave.” “I already told her that,” Ham growled. Greg ignored Ham like he didn’t exist and said to Aunt Dahlia, “I’ll ask the manager to have you removed.” “Since I dine here once a month, I doubt he’ll choose removing me over removing the lot of you.” She twirled her finger in the air to indicate us all. “Do you think,” Nina started and I looked at her to see her looking at Max, “that this is normal? I mean, does this kind of thing happen to other people in the world? I really want to know.” Max smiled at his wife. I looked back at Aunt Dahlia to see, scarily, she was looking at me. “You need to phone your father.” “No, she doesn’t.” This was said by Kami Maxwell. I leaned forward and plonked my forehead on the table. --- “Is there a problem here?” A mild-mannered-looking suited man I suspected was the manager entered the situation. “No, I’m simply having a word with my niece,” my aunt replied. “Yes, this woman interrupted my wife’s dinner in an extremely unpleasant way,” Greg contradicted. “She’s not your wife,” Ham grunted. Uh-oh. Shocking the crap out of me, Greg, with narrowed eyes and anger contorting his face, instantly fired back at Ham, “She’ll always be my wife.” I went still. The table went still. I fancied the restaurant went still as I was pretty certain I watched ice form in a thick layer, crackling and groaning all around Ham. “Well shit.” His words were sarcastic but that didn’t mean they weren’t dripping icicles. “See I’m in a position to apologize since I fucked your wife against the wall before we left to come here.” This was when I plonked my head on the table again. “Oh my,” Nina breathed as she glanced at Max. “We haven’t done that in a while, darling. We should do that again.

That wall," explained the Shaggy Man, "is what is called an optical illusion. It is quite real while you have your eyes open, but if you are not looking at it the barrier doesn't exist at all. It's the same way with many other evils in life; they seem to exist, and yet it's all seeming and not true.

That there is a silent genocide of women and girls in the homes, communities and just everywhere is not a new story. That my great grandmother, grandmother, mother, mother-in-law, aunt, sister, cousin, niece, housemaid, co-worker, friend, neighbor and just about every female shares the same pain is not a new story. What is new in this story is how I stood up to say, “Never again.” Never again will a girl or woman get raped, killed, drop out of school, be harmed by our culture or be sexually enslaved. That is as long as I know about it. Never Again--not to any woman or girl again is the new story.

That is the College of Art and Athletic Perfection," replied Ozma. "I had it built quite recently, and the Woggle-Bug is its president. It keeps him busy, and the young men who attend the college are no worse off than they were before. You see, in this country are a number of youths who do not like to work, and the college is an excellent place for them.

But seriously – how is this a good example of womanhood? How is this something we should be propping up and praising? Think about the women in your life – your mom, your aunts, your grandmothers, your sisters, your daughters, your nieces, your friends. Would you like ANY of them reduced to one small part of their anatomy? Would you tell them to their faces that they are nothing more than a walking life support system for their vaginas? ‘Cause that’s the message that feminism is sending to women the world over.I thought feminists cared more about a woman’s mind and heart, and less about her body parts....Ladies, we are so much more than our body parts. Don’t take Hollywood airheads like Cate Blanchett as your life example.

Not a single family finds itself exempt from that one haunted casualty who suffered irreparable damage in the crucible they entered at birth. Where some children can emerge from conditions of soul-killing abuse and manage to make their lives into something of worth and value, others can’t limp away from the hurts and gleanings time decanted for them in flawed beakers of memory. They carry the family cross up the hill toward Calvary and don’t mind letting every other member of their aggrieved tribe in on the source of their suffering. There is one crazy that belongs to each of us: the brother who kills the spirit of any room he enters; the sister who’s a drug addict in her teens and marries a series of psychopaths, always making sure she bears their children, who carry their genes of madness to the grave. There’s the neurotic mother who’s so demanding that the sound of her voice over the phone can cause instant nausea in her daughters. The variations are endless and fascinating. I’ve never attended a family reunion where I was not warned of a Venus flytrap holding court among the older women, or a pitcher plant glistening with drops of sweet poison trying to sell his version of the family maelstrom to his young male cousins. When the stories begin rolling out, as they always do, one learns of feuds that seem unbrokerable, or sexual abuse that darkens each tale with its intimation of ruin. That uncle hates that aunt and that cousin hates your mother and your sister won’t talk to your brother because of something he said to a date she later married and then divorced. In every room I enter I can sniff out unhappiness and rancor like a snake smelling the nest of a wren with its tongue. Without even realizing it, I pick up associations of distemper and aggravation. As far as I can tell, every family produces its solitary misfit, its psychotic mirror image of all the ghosts summoned out of the small or large hells of childhood, the spiller of the apple cart, the jack of spades, the black-hearted knight, the shit stirrer, the sibling with the uncontrollable tongue, the father brutal by habit, the uncle who tried to feel up his nieces, the aunt too neurotic ever to leave home. Talk to me all you want about happy families, but let me loose at a wedding or a funeral and I’ll bring you back the family crazy. They’re that easy to find.

After listening in, Franny had decided that magic was not so very far from science. Both endeavors searched for meaning where there was none, light in the darkness, answers to questions too difficult for mortals to comprehend. Aunt Isabelle knew her niece was there on the stairs taking notes, but said nothing. She had a special fondness for Franny. They were alike in more ways than Franny would care to know.

She matters. It’s why I do what I do — they matter, the people. If they’re alone in the world, or caught in this net... Whether someone’s son or daughter, brother or sister, aunt or uncle, niece or nephew, grandkid. It’s the one lost sheep. We’re the sheepdogs, remember?’ They all knew the saying that there were three types of people: sheep, the wolves who seek to devour the sheep, and the sheepdogs who do what it takes to protect the sheep. Many times, that wasn’t pretty. In fact, it was often downright bloody.

According to Reggie Tasker’s notes, Nurse Dennison returned with her treat and immediately prepared a drink of orange pop for her niece Shirley. For the next hour or so she observed the child’s convulsions with a most flattering concern; later on, perhaps because the child’s stamina seemed about to triumph over her aunt’s intention, Nurse Dennison said that, in her opinion, what little Shirley needed at this point in her illness was another sip or two of orange pop; it was sure to settle her stomach and return her to her customary bouncing health. She tendered the cup, and Shirley, a sweet, obedient child, drank at her aunt’s bidding.

We consider a prisoner unfortunate. He is unfortunate in two ways--because he has done something wrong and because he is deprived of his liberty. Therefore we should treat him kindly, because of his misfortune, for otherwise he would become hard and bitter and would not be sorry he had done wrong. Ozma thinks that one who has committed a fault did so because he was not strong and brave; therefore she puts him in prison to make him strong and brave. When that is accomplished he is no longer a prisoner, but a good and loyal citizen and everyone is glad that he is now strong enough to resist doing wrong. You see, it is kindness that makes one strong and brave; and so we are kind to our prisoners.

I tell my seven-year-old son about his remarkable forefathers. I leave out the bloody details. (For him these people are like knights, which sounds better than hangmen or executioners.) In his bedroom hangs a collage made up of photos of long-dead family members--great-grandparents, great-great-grandparents, their aunts, their uncles, their nephews and nieces..Sometimes at night he wants to hear stories about these people, and I tell him what I know about them. Happy stories, sad stories, frightening stories. For him the family is a safe refuge, a link binding him to many people whom he loves and who love him. I once heard that everyone on this earth is at least distantly related to everyone else. Somehow this is a comforting idea.

Six million women were abused in 1991. One in every six was pregnant." --- Sally Jessy Raphael Abuse against women is more than a crime of violence. It is a statement about society's view of women and itself. Women have been viewed as property, tools of pleasure, and underlings. The people who support these views forget that women are the mothers, daughters, aunts, sisters, and nieces who raise the fathers, sons, uncles, brothers, and nephews. Women are the creative force of the world. The world's treatment of women will be reflected in the things men create. Every man of color has an ancestral obligation to get clear regarding his views about women. Childhood pains, adolescent disappointments, adult misconceptions must be mended and forgiven. Every woman of color has a responsibility to all women of color to reveal the violence against her, to heal her wounds, and do everything in her power to make sure another woman is healed." Mantra: I Am every woman; Reflection: Consider the women in your life who have been victims of physical or sexual abuse. What can you do today to help one woman heal or to end the painful cycle for future generations? ----Iyanla Vanzant, from Acts of Faith: Daily Meditations for People of Color

We’re the battling bastards of Bataan. No mama, no papa, no Uncle Sam. No aunts, no uncles, no cousins, no nieces. No pills, no planes, no artillery pieces. And nobody gives a damn.

Everybody was excited, full of expectations and trepidation. We saw the Statue of Liberty, from afar - an impressive sight. The woman, who was travelling with me had not seen her son in years, had lost her husband during the war and was going to meet her intended new mate. I was going to see my family after so many years. When Eli left, I was five. Betty and Bernie saw me last when I was ten; Gertie when I was fourteen and Sali had left home ten years previously. I was 27 years old but had gone through troubles that could count for a hundred. Of course, there were uncles and aunts, in-laws, nieces and nephews, cousins.

I apologize for my niece’s clumsiness. She should know better than to try something as foolish as skating.” “It wasn’t her fault, ma’am. I ran into her. I tried to avoid the collision, but I’m afraid I failed miserably.” “And, like a knight of the Round Table, you gallantly brought her home.” Aunt Millie picked up the fan beside her and waved it in front of her flushed cheeks.

prison. Duke Graham drove to the police station and provided a solid alibi. Debbie’s family was informed that the apartment she’d been renting needed to be vacated. Her mother was still not functioning. Her aunt Glenna Lucas volunteered for the unpleasant task. A policeman unlocked the apartment, and Glenna entered slowly. Nothing had been moved since the murder, and her first reaction was one of raw anger. There had obviously been a brawl. Her niece had fought desperately for her life. How could anyone inflict such violence on such a sweet, pretty girl? The apartment was cold, with an offensive smell, one she could not identify. The words “Jim Smith next will die” were still on the wall. Glenna gawked in disbelief at the killer’s badly scrawled message. It took time, she thought. He was here for a long time. Her niece had finally died after a brutal ordeal. In the bedroom, the mattress was against a wall and nothing was in place. In the closet, not a single dress or blouse was still on a hanger. Why would the killer strip all the clothing from the hangers? The small kitchen was disorganized but showed no signs of a struggle. Debbie’s last meal had included frozen potatoes—Tater Tots—and the leftovers sat untouched on a paper plate with catsup. A saltshaker was next to the plate, which was on the small white table she used for her meals. Near the plate was another crude message—“Don’t look fore us or ealse.” Glenna knew that the killer had used catsup for some of his writings. She was struck by the misspelled words. Glenna managed to block out the terrible thoughts and begin packing. It took two hours to collect and box the clothing and dishes and towels and such. The bloody bedspread had not

After breakfast, the gentlemen went shooting, Aunt Saffronia was busy with the mute servants, and Miss Heartwright was still at the cottage, leaving Jane and Miss Charming alone in the morning room. They stared at the brown-flecked wallpaper. “I’m so bored. This isn’t what Mrs. Wattlesbrook promised me yesterday.” “We could play whist,” Jane said. “Whist in the morning, whist in the evening, ain’t we got fun?” The wallpaper hadn’t changed. Jane kept an eye on it all the same. “I mean, is this what you expected?” asked Miss Charming. Jane glanced at the lamp, wondering if Mrs. Wattlesbrook had it bugged. “I am Jane Erstwhile, niece of Lady Templeton, visiting from America,” she said robotically. “Well, I can’t take another minute. I’m going to go find that Miss Heartwreck and see what she thinks.” Jane’s gaze jumped from wall to window, and she watched for hints of the men out in the fields, wondering if Captain East thought her pretty, if Colonel Andrews liked her better than Miss Charming. Stop it, she told herself. And then she thought about Mr. Nobley last night, his odd outburst, his insistence on dancing with her, and then his abrupt withdrawal after one dance. He truly was exasperating. But, she considered, he irritated in a very useful way. The dream of Mr. Darcy was tangling in the unpleasant reality of Mr. Nobley. As she gave herself pause to breathe in that idea, the truth felt as obliterating as her no Santa Claus discovery at age eight. There is no Mr. Darcy. Or more likely, Mr. Darcy would actually be a boring, pompous pinhead.

Surely a young beauty like yourself is lonely, too. It can be a part of the game, if you like.” “Get off,” she said, thoroughly done with this. His answer was to lean in closer. So she kneed him in the groin. As hard as she could. “Aw, ow, dammit!” He doubled over and thudded onto his knees. Jane brushed off her knee, feeling like it had touched something dirty. “Aw, ow, dammit indeed! What’re you thinking?” Jane heard hurried footsteps coming down the stairs. It was Mr. Nobley. “Miss Erstwhile!” He was barefoot in his breeches, his shirt untucked. He glanced down at the groaning man. “Sir Templeton!” “Ow, she kicked me,” said Sir Templeton. “Kneed him, I kneed him,” Jane said. “I don’t kick. Not even when I’m a ninja.” Mr. Nobley stood a moment in silence, looking over the scene. “I hope you remembered to shout ‘Ya’ when taking him down. I hear that is very effective.” “I’m afraid I neglected that bit, but I’ll certainly ‘ya’ from here to London if he ever touches me again.” “Miss Erstwhile, were you perhaps employed by your president’s armed forces in America?” “What? Don’t British women know how to use their knees?” “Happily, I have never put myself in a position to find out.” He stared at the prostrate Sir Templeton. “Did he hurt you?” “Frankly, your arm-yanking earlier was worse.” “I see. Perhaps you should retire to your chambers, Miss Erstwhile. Would you like me to escort you?” “I’m fine,” she said, “as long as there aren’t any other Sir Templetons lurking upstairs.” “Well, I cannot give Colonel Andrews a glowing reference, but I believe the way is safe.” She stepped closer to Mr. Nobley and whispered, “Are you going to out me to Mrs. Wattlesbrook for the servants’ quarters lurking?” “I think,” he said, nudging the prostrate Sir Templeton with his foot, “that you have suffered enough tonight.” Mr. Nobley smiled at her, the first time she had seen his real smile. She wouldn’t go so far as to call it a grin. His lips were closed, but his eyes brightened and the corners of his mouth definitely turned up, creating pleasing little cheek wrinkles on either side as though the smile were in parentheses. It bothered her in a way she couldn’t explain, like feeling itchy but not knowing exactly where to scratch. He was not particularly amused, she saw, but smiled to reassure her. Wait, who wanted to reassure her? Mr. Nobley or the actual man, Actor X? “Thanks. Good night, Mr. Nobley.” “Good night, Miss Erstwhile.” She hesitated, then left, Sir Templeton’s groans following her up the stairs. On the second floor, Aunt Saffronia was emerging from her room, clutching a white shawl over her nightgown. “What was that noise? Is everything all right?” “Yes. It was…your husband. He was being inappropriate.” Aunt Saffronia blinked. “Inebriated?” “Yes.” She nodded slowly. “I’m sorry, Jane.” Jane wasn’t sure if Aunt Saffronia was speaking to Jane the niece or Jane the client. For the first time it didn’t matter; both Janes felt exactly the same. She acknowledged the apology with a nod, went to her room, and locked the door behind her. She thought she was angry but instead she plopped herself down on her bed, put her face in her pillow, and laughed. “What a joke,” she said, sounding to herself like the movie incarnation of Lydia Bennet. “I come for Mr. Darcy, fall for the gardener, and get propositioned by the drunk husband.” Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow she would play for real. She was going to drive full force into the game, have a staggering good time, and kick the nasty Darcy habit for good. She fell asleep with the ticklish thought of Mr. Nobley’s smile.

I love you, Aunt Morgan. I’ll admit I had a good cry when I found out about your lupus diagnosis. But Wyatt was there for me and helped me see it wasn’t the end of your life. And I’ll be there every step of the way in the capacity as your niece who happens to be a medical professional. I intend to watch over the whole family,

Item Twenty-Three: As for my great-niece and -nephew, Amy and Dan Cahill... Being charged with your care and upbringing was by far the worst thing that ever happened to me. - Mr. Smood, reading Aunt Beatrice's will

But that’s my sister and most importantly, that’s Aaliyah’s aunt, and I wanted her to be a part of her niece’s life. Yes, I forgave her for the shit that she pulled with my husband, but I didn’t forget.

The woman was tall, wearing stretch leggings and a big red bulky sweater. Even though it was thick, it left no doubt that she filled it out a lot better than I filled out mine. Dolly Parton to my . . . well, let’s just say that the greatly endowed wagon had passed me by. Her blonde hair was cascading in glorious waves around her shoulders instead of hanging in tight curls like mine. She no doubt knew her way around a curling iron. She was resting a hand on Aunt Sue’s shoulders like they were the very best of friends. I couldn’t explain it, but I took an immediate dislike to her. Probably because Brad couldn’t take his eyes off her and was starting to drool. “Hey, everyone, this is Cynthia,” Aunt Sue announced, like we should all care when I definitely did not. “She’s staying at the condo next to yours. This is my niece, Kate, my nephew, Sam, and their friends.” “It’s great to meet you all,” Cynthia said a little too breathlessly, her voice having a little squeal to it, like she was trying really hard to sound sexy but she just came across sounding like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.

Portuguese peasants made them,” replied Miss Morrison, shaking her head. “Once I had six. Now the set numbers five. A Pioneer of Female Education, who came to lecture to the Institute, ate one. She was very old and noble-looking and, I suppose, shortsighted. I was just thinking how well the green plums matched the rest of the effect, when to my horror I perceived her cutting up plum and mat together with a good sharp fruit-knife. Her niece noticed presently, and said, ‘Aunt Harriott, you cannot eat Miss Morrison’s mat!’ The dear old thing was frightfully distressed, and started tearing shreds from her jaws

Her attitude to the girls became that of an aunt who knew her nieces had heard her discussed unfavorably but could not help showing her interest in them and some of her affection.Indeed she seemedm to acquire something of the thick skin such a woman had to cultivate if her feelings were not to be constantly hurt by inattention to her questions, opinions, and fund of boring anecdotes.

Whither have you been rambling so early?" said Madame Cheron, as her niece entered the breakfast-room. "I don't approve of these solitary walks;" and Emily was surprised, when, having informed her aunt, that she had been no further than the gardens, she understood these to be included in the reproof. "I desire you will not walk there again at so early an hour unattended," said Madame Cheron; "my gardens are very extensive; and a young woman, who can make assignations by moon-light, at La Vallee, is not to be trusted to her own inclinations elsewhere." Emily,

Hello, ladies, I’m your uncle Devlin. Has Westhaven scared you witless with his fuming and fretting?” This fellow looked to be great fun, with a nice smile and kind green eyes. “Mama and Papa didn’t say anything about getting uncles for Christmas,” Amanda observed, but she was smiling back at the big uncle. The biggest uncle—they were all as tall as Papa. “Well, that’s because we’re a surprise,” the other dark-haired fellow said. “I’m your uncle Valentine, and we have an entire gaggle of aunties waiting out in the coach to spoil you rotten. Westhaven here is just out of sorts because Father Christmas gave him a headache for being naughty yesterday.” “I was not naughty.” The other two uncles thought this was quite funny, judging by their smiles. “There’s your problem,” said Uncle Devlin. “I’m thinking it’s a fine day for a pair of ladies to join their aunts for a ride in the traveling coach.” Uncle Gayle—it didn’t seem fair to call him by the same name as Fleur’s puppy—appeared to consider this. “For what purpose?” “To keep the peace. Emmie and I never haul out our big guns around the children,” said Uncle Devlin, which made no sense. “Do you like to play soldiers?” Fleur asked. Amanda appeared intrigued by the notion. She was forever galloping up hills and charging down banisters in pursuit of the French. Uncle Devlin’s brows knitted—he had wonderful dark eyebrows, much like Papa’s. “As a matter of fact, on occasion, if I’ve been an exceedingly good fellow, my daughter lets me join her in a game of soldiers.” “I’m not exactly unfamiliar with the business myself,” said Uncle Valentine. “I excel at the lightning charge and have been known to take even the occasional doll prisoner.” “Missus Wolverhampton would not like being a prisoner,” Fleur said, though Uncle Valentine was teasing—wasn’t he?” “Perhaps you gentlemen can arrange an assignation to play soldiers with our nieces on some other day,” Westhaven said. He sounded like his teeth hurt, which Fleur knew might be from the seasonal hazard of eating too much candy. “You can play too,” Fleur allowed, because it was Christmas, and one ought to be kind to uncles who strayed into one’s nursery. “We’ll let you be Wellington,” Amanda added, getting into the spirit of the day. “Which leaves me to be Blucher’s mercenaries,” Uncle Devlin said, “saving the day as usual.” “Oh, that’s brilliant.” Uncle Valentine wasn’t smiling now. “Leave your baby brother to be the infernal French again, will you? See if I write a waltz for your daughter’s come out, St. Just.” Uncle Gayle wasn’t frowning quite so mightily. In fact, he looked like he wanted to smile but was too grown-up to allow it. “Perhaps you ladies will gather up a few soldiers and fetch a doll or two. We’re going on a short journey to find your mama and papa, so we can all share Christmas with them.” Fleur noticed his slip, and clearly, Amanda had too—but it was the same slip Amanda had made earlier, and one Fleur was perfectly happy to let everybody make. Uncle Gayle had referred to their papa’s new wife not as their stepmama, but as their mama. What a fine thing that would be, if for Christmas they got a mama again for really and truly. Amanda fetched their dolls, Fleur grabbed their favorite storybook, and the uncles herded them from the nursery, all three grown men arguing about whose turn it was to be the blasted French. ***

The little boy touched his dust-streaked hand to Loretta’s hair and made a breathless “ooh” sound. He smelled like any little boy who had been hard at play, a bit sweaty yet somehow sweet, with the definite odor of dog and horse clinging to him. Blackbird concentrated on Loretta’s blue eyes, staring into them with unflinching intensity. The younger girl ran reverent fingertips over the flounces on Loretta’s bloomers, saying, “Tosi wannup,” over and over again. Loretta couldn’t help but smile. She was as strange to them as they were to her. She longed to gather them close and never let go. Friendly faces and human warmth. Their giggles made her long for home. With a throat that responded none too well to the messages from her brain, Loretta murmured, “Hello.” The sound of her own voice seemed unreal--an echo from the past. “Hi, hites.” Blackbird linked her chubby forefingers in an unmistakable sign of friendship. “Hah-ich-ka sooe ein conic?” Loretta had no idea what the child had asked until Blackbird steepled her fingers. “Oh--my house?” Loretta cupped a hand over her brow as if she were squinting into the distance. “Very far away.” Blackbird’s eyes sparkled with delight, and she burst into a long chain of gibberish, chortling and waving her hands. Loretta watched her, fascinated by the glow of happiness in her eyes, the innocence in her small face. She had always imagined Comanches, young and old, with blood dripping from their fingers. A deep voice came from behind her. “She asks how long you will eat and keep warm with us.” Startled, Loretta glanced over her shoulder to find Hunter reclining on a pallet of furs. Because he lay so low to the floor, she hadn’t seen him the first time she’d looked. Propping himself up on one elbow, he listened to his niece chatter for a moment. His eyes caught the light coming through the lodge door, glistening, fathomless. “You will tell her, ‘Pihet tabbe.’” Trust didn’t come easily to Loretta. “What does that mean?” A smile teased the corners of his mouth. “Pihet, three. Tabbe, the sun. Three suns. It was our bargain.” Relieved that she hadn’t dreamed his promise to take her home, Loretta repeated “pihet tabbe” to Blackbird. The little girl looked crestfallen and took Loretta’s hand. “Ka,” she cried. “Ein mea mon-ach.” “Ka, no. You are going a long way,” Hunter translated, pushing to his feet as he spoke. “I think she likes you.” He came to the bed and, with an indulgent smile, shooed the children away as Aunt Rachel shooed chickens. “Poke Wy-ar-pee-cha, Pony Girl,” he said as he scooped the unintimidated toddler off the furs and set her on the floor. His hand lingered a moment on her hair, a loving gesture that struck Loretta as totally out of character for a Comanche warrior. The fragile child, his rugged strength. The two formed a fascinating contrast. “She is from my sister who is dead.” Nodding toward the boy, he added, “Wakare-ee, Turtle, from Warrior.” Loretta didn’t want the children to leave her alone with their uncle. She gazed after them as they ran out the lodge door.

You see, it's this way. It is inme. I can't help it. And Father said I was always to keep on writing. He said I would be famous some day. Wouldn't you like to have a famous niece, Aunt Elizabeth?" "I am not going to argue the matter," said Aunt Elizabeth. "I'm not arguing—only explaining." Emily was exasperatingly respectful. "I just want you to understand how it is that I have to go on writing stories, even though I am so very sorry you don't approve." "If you don't give up this—this worse than nonsense, Emily, I'll—I'll—" Aunt Elizabeth stopped, not knowing what to say she would do. Emily was

If I had been invited by my dear family sooner, I would've dealt with Glaemir by now," said a voice behind them. "Aunt Helen!" Laurie exclaimed. "Niece." The ruler of Hel wore another living dress, this one covered by death's-head moths. Aside from the tiny little skull shape on the backs of the moths, they weren't particularly odd. Helen's habit of dressing in living things, however, was a bit creepy. "Speak of the devil," Fen murmured. Helen laughed and shook her finger at him. "Now, now, Nephew. I'm standing here with the godlings. Would I do that if I were a devil?

In India, individual shame did not exist. Humiliation spread, as easily as oil on wax paper, to the entire family, even to distant cousins, uncles, aunts, nieces, and nephews. The rumormongers made sure of that.

You're an outsider, and I don't know you from Adam. And it seems the world has gone mad in a biblical sense. We must be living in the last days scenario with brother turning against brother. For all we know, we're on the verge of an apocalypse. We're taking precautions." Detective Thornton lowered his chin to make direct eye contact with Aunt Vi. "I assure you, Miss Myers, God nor the Bible isn't who you or your niece should fear. At the moment, it's the law." "I smell sulfur. Like a demon rising from pit of Hades. Get behind me, Satan!" Aunt Vi rebuked and held up two fingers to resemble a cross at the detective.

In the novel A Ghost, A Witch, and a Goblin by Scholastic Book Services, from Baba Yaga, a Russian witch story, the Good Aunt says to her niece, "Because you are so brave and so good, you will be stronger than all the wicked creatures you may meet.

Don’t worry about your schedule, your business, your family, or your friends. Just focus with me and really open your mind. In your mind’s eye, see yourself going to the funeral of a loved one. Picture yourself driving to the funeral parlor or chapel, parking the car, and getting out. As you walk inside the building, you notice the flowers, the soft organ music. You see the faces of friends and family you pass along the way. You feel the shared sorrow of losing, the joy of having known, that radiates from the hearts of the people there. As you walk down to the front of the room and look inside the casket, you suddenly come face-to-face with yourself. This is your funeral, three years from today. All these people have come to honor you, to express feelings of love and appreciation for your life. As you take a seat and wait for the services to begin, you look at the program in your hand. There are to be four speakers. The first is from your family, immediate and also extended—children, brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces, aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents who have come from all over the country to attend. The second speaker is one of your friends, someone who can give a sense of what you were as a person. The third speaker is from your work or profession. And the fourth is from your church or some community organization where you’ve been involved in service. Now think deeply. What would you like each of these speakers to say about you and your life? What kind of husband, wife, father, or mother would you like their words to reflect? What kind of son or daughter or cousin? What kind of friend? What kind of working associate? What character would you like them to have seen in you? What contributions, what achievements would you want them to remember? Look carefully at the people around you. What difference would you like to have made in their lives? Before you read further, take a few minutes to jot down your impressions. It will greatly increase your personal understanding of Habit 2.

We hear considerable of the "conventional people" of this world, but seldom do we meet with them, for as soon as we begin to know a person we discover peculiarities that quite remove him from the ranks of the convectional if such ranks exist at all.

Six million women were abused in 1991. One in every six was pregnant." --- Sally Jessy Raphael Abuse against women is more than a crime of violence. It is a statement about society's view of women and itself. Women have been viewed as property, tools of pleasure, and underlings. The people who support these views forget that women are the mothers, daughters, aunts, sisters, and nieces who raise the fathers, sons, uncles, brothers, and nephews. Women are the creative force of the world. The world's treatment of women will be reflected in the things men create. Every man of color has an ancestral obligation to get clear regarding his views about women. Childhood pains, adolescent disappointments, adult misconceptions must be mended and forgiven. Every woman of color has a responsibility to all women of color to reveal the violence against her, to heal her wounds, and do everything in her power to make sure another woman is healed." Mantra: I Am every woman; Reflection: Consider the women in your life who have been victims of physical or sexual abuse. What can you do today to help one woman heal or to end the painful cycle for future generations?

I wasn't a stranger on this trip. I was a seeker, I was a daughter, a friend, a sister, an aunt, a niece, but most of all, I was true to myself. I honored a part of me that was weary, that had been bruised, challenged, broken, and used up. I asked God to renew my spirit and help me be grateful for the blessings in my life, and He did.

Aunt Edwina, this is exceedingly generous of you! My younger nieces have rarely visited town, and not for the last several years. We cannot thank you enough,

All my aunt’s stories have gone with her to the grave, lost to her daughters and me, the niece who needs them. Tears run hot and sour into my open mouth.

God ’s Joyful Love The Lord your God is in the midst of you, a Mighty One, a Savior [Who saves]! He will rejoice over you with joy; He will rest [in silent satisfaction] and in His love He will be silent and make no mention [of past sins, or even recall them]; He will exult over you with singing. ZEPHANIAH 3:17 AMP The first time a mom holds her newborn, a grandmother holds her grandchild, or an aunt holds her newborn niece or nephew, their hearts fill up with overwhelming love for that child. You look into the baby’s eyes, check all the fingers and toes, and marvel over the perfection of this child. You can’t imagine anything they do or say as the child grows up will lessen the love you have for him or her. This scenario is just a tiny glimpse into how much God loves His children. Paul wrote in Romans 8: “I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow—not even the powers of hell can separate us from God’s love. No power in the sky above or in the earth below—indeed, nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord” (vv. 38–39 NLT). Zephaniah says that God’s love for His child is so overwhelming that He breaks into singing. Music is a spontaneous expression of many emotions, but especially love. Father, thank You for Your arms of love holding me close to Your heart.

from The Ninja and The Diplomat (coming in September 2015)--As an unintended but ineluctable consequence of the one child policy, he and his wife, like most of his generation and those succeeding, consisted of only children; hence his family included no aunts or uncles, no cousins, and no nieces or nephews. The Chinese family had lost an immeasurable dimension of richness.

with an Excel spreadsheet?” I made a face like that was ridiculous, but of course there had been an Excel spreadsheet. As soon as everyone was ready, we set off. Joni tramped away in one direction with my seven-year-old, Maggie, whose foghorn voice sent birds skittering into the sky as she harangued her aunt to hurry so they could get back first. “It’s not a race,” Joni said, fading into the tree line. “I want to get the biggest log,” Maggie bellowed. Joni’s own kid, Lola, refused to leave the camp. With the infinite disdain of a teenager, she said there was no need to fatigue ourselves. Fatigue ourselves. Lola went gliding in her slow-motion gait to pluck dead twigs from the trees, like a nymph picking enchanted fruit for a heartsick knight. She high-stepped off into the undergrowth and, for all I knew, changed into a deer, such was the inscrutable nature of my niece, the Lady Lola. By contrast, the all too scrutable Billy was screaming to go with the big boys, who I knew would abandon him up a tree given half a chance. “Carry me,” he said no more than five feet from the camp. So he scrambled onto my shoulders, his arms clamped in a fierce little

Have you met him, then? Don Ernesto of Rome? Rumor has it he can be quite a handful.” “As well as a mouthful, no doubt.” The fat woman threw her head back and cackled. “Bit of an odd one, though. He likes his women cold.” “I could be cold,” Hortensa said. She looked around the group, as if daring anyone to challenge this assertion. “So your husband tells us.” Donna Domacetti cackled again. “But I don’t mean cold as in cruel, Hortensa. I mean physically cold. Apparently he makes his favorite courtesan bathe in ice water before he lies with her.” “How unusual,” the dark-haired woman murmured. Cass had already forgotten her name. Isabella? No, Isabetta. “Does he not have to worry about the cold affecting his…size?” Isabetta asked. Cass almost choked on her tea. Her face turned bright red. This wasn’t what she imagined socializing with Donna Domacetti’s circle would be like. What if Agnese had come with her? Surely they wouldn’t have spoken so crassly in front of her aunt. Donna Domacetti chuckled. “Careful, ladies. An innocent sits among us.” Cass forced her lips into a small, closed-mouth smile. She wondered what these women would think of her if they knew of her trysts with Falco. Cass thought of the moment they had shared only last night. What might have happened if the world were only her and Falco, if he could have laid her back on one of her aunt’s marble benches and kissed her until sunrise? “It’s hard to imagine the niece of Agnese Querini being too innocent,” Isabetta said. She sipped her tea and then set the pale pink cup back on its saucer, a smear of blood-red lip stain marring the golden rim. Cass raised an eyebrow at the dark-haired woman. “What does that mean?” Donna Domacetti rubbed her chins with the back of her hand. “Nothing, my dear. Simply that your aunt is very wise in the ways of the world.

I should have known if there was trouble that you would find it, Cassandra. You’re very like your parents in that way.” It was almost as if Agnese had read her mind. Cass watched the raindrops ping against the tiny waves as the gondola left the Grand Canal and entered the lagoon. Agnese wasn’t finished. She turned her attentions to Luca. “And you, Luca da Peraga. If you hope to make Cassandra your bride, you’ll have to learn to keep a much tighter rein on her.” Luca’s cheeks colored slightly as he shifted in the gondola. “Mi dispiace, Signora Querini,” he said. “But you speak of your niece as if she’s a horse instead of a beautiful young woman.” Luca dared to flash Cass a quick half smile. She smiled back. Luca’s willingness to defend her to her aunt made her feel as warm, as comforted, as his heroics in the wine room. Agnese harrumphed. “If I speak of her as an animal, it is because her antics are positively uncivilized at times.

After helping Cass into her dressing gown, Siena grabbed a silver-plated hairbrush from the dressing table and began to brush Cass’s hair so furiously that it made Cass’s eyes water. “Not so hard,” she grumbled. “No need to punish me. I’m sure my aunt has something terrible planned already. Perhaps I’ll have to embroider an entire bedcover, or worse, she’ll make me start taking violin lessons again.” Cass had endured two years of harp and violin lessons with a tutor from the Rialto, but eventually Agnese had realized that her niece was just not musically gifted. “Now that would be a punishment for us all, Signorina,” Siena said with a delicate smile. Cass would have been offended if the remark weren’t so true. Even the house cats used to run and hide when they saw Cass with her violin case.

So how do you like my handyman?” Aunt Teeta greeted her, pulling Miranda close. “Isn’t he a genius?” Miranda managed a nod. “I wasn’t sure your mama told you he was coming,” Aunt Teeta went on. “But I see you two have already met.” Repair Guy answered smoothly. “We sort of…ran into each other.” “Well, I’m so glad. Etienne, this is my niece, Miranda. I wasn’t exaggerating now, was I? About how beautiful she is?” “No, ma’am, you weren’t exaggerating at all.” With a silent groan, Miranda glanced longingly at the door while her aunt bustled back across the room. “And Miranda, this is Etienne Boucher. I’m surprised y’all don’t know each other from school.” “I’ve been working the last few days,” Etienne said. “It’s one of those special programs, Miranda.” Aunt Teeta’s voice lowered, as though sharing some great secret. “He goes to school part-time, and the rest of the time he works. And he still manages to charm all the ladies in town.” For the first time, Etienne seemed almost embarrassed. “And my, but he cleans up good--I’ve seen him.” Winking at Miranda, Aunt Teta was perfectly deadpan. “It just goes to show you--you can’t judge a greasy ole book by its cover.

All your friends are welcome here, darlin’,” Aunt Teeta assured her niece. “It’ll be good to have young people in the house. It needs some laughter and enthusiasm and fresh ideas.” “You’ll love Ashley, then,” Miranda told her. “I wish I had her enthusiasm.” “I wish you had Etienne Boucher. But that Gage is awful cute, too.” Winking, Aunt Teeta picked up her mug of mint tea and started for the stairs. “I’m off to bed, dear ones. Sleep tight.” Mom gave Miranda a teasing look. “What’s all this about Etienne Boucher? Teeta seems awfully determined to get you two together.” “He’s just a guy at school. In my study group. It’s nothing.” Then, as Mom lifted an eyebrow, Miranda added, “He’s the guy who fixed our air conditioner.” “I like him already. Who’s Gage?” “His cousin. And I’m not getting together with anyone.” “You don’t have to convince me, honey.

We cry mother to daughter. We cry aunt to niece. We cry victim to victim. We cry survivor to survivor.

The following extracts are from letters addressed to a niece who was at that time amusing herself by attempting a novel, probably never finished, certainly never published, and of which I know nothing but what these extracts tell.  They show the good-natured sympathy and encouragement which the aunt, then herself occupied in writing ‘Emma,’ could give to the less matured powers of the niece.  They bring out incidentally some of her opinions concerning compositions of that kind:—

Neither did you deny it. Is she truly the penniless niece of a tradesman? Are her connections truly so dire?” “If they are not now, they soon will be, for she will gain the devil of an aunt with the husband,” Mrs Sinclair said huffily.

she often dreamed of holding a baby, of raising a child. She knew those dreams were signs from the interior that she longed to be a mother. But the problem was, she loved CeCe. How could any love match what she had for her niece? She had even talked about it with Maddie, because her sister was always worried about her, sad that she was so alone. “Being an aunt is enough for me,” Hadley had said. “It’s not the same,” Maddie had said. “Maybe not, but I can’t imagine loving anyone as much as I do CeCe.” “Well, and she loves you, too.” That much? Hadley had wondered. Did CeCe know that Hadley’s world revolved around her and Maddie? That Hadley would do anything for them?

I told him about my aunt and the woman she loved across time, and her fear of good things going sour, and I told him about her niece, who was so afraid of something good that she settled for safe...

Aunt Jane was in perfect correspondence with her environment. She wore a purple calico dress, rather short and scant; a gingham apron, with a capacious pocket, in which she always carried knitting: or some other "handy work"; a white handkerchief was laid primly around the wrinkled throat and fastened with a pin containing a lock of gray hair; her cap was of black lace and lutestring ribbon, not one of the butterfly affairs that perch on the top of the puffs and frizzes of the modern old lady, but a substantial structure that covered her whole head and was tied securely under her chin. She talked in a sweet old treble with a little lisp, caused by the absence of teeth, and her laugh was as clear and joyous as a young girl's. "Yes, I'm a-piecin' quilts again," she said, snipping away at the bits of calico in her lap. "I did say I was done with that sort o' work; but this mornin' I was rummagin' around up in the garret, and I come across this bundle of pieces, and thinks I, 'I reckon it's intended for me to piece one more quilt before I die;' I must 'a' put 'em there thirty years ago and clean forgot 'em, and I've been settin' here all the evenin' cuttin' 'em and thinkin' about old times. "Jest feel o' that," she continued, tossing some scraps into my lap. "There ain't any such caliker nowadays. This ain't your five-cent stuff that fades in the first washin' and wears out in the second. A caliker dress was somethin' worth buyin' and worth makin' up in them days. That blue-flowered piece was a dress I got the spring before Abram died. When I put on mournin' it was as good as new, and I give it to sister Mary. That one with the green ground and white figger was my niece Rebecca's. She wore it for the first time to the County Fair the year I took the premium on my salt-risin' bread and sponge cake. This black-an' white piece Sally Ann Flint give me. I ricollect 'twas in blackberry time, and I'd been out in the big pasture pickin' some for supper, and I stopped in at Sally Ann's for a drink o' water on my way back. She was cuttin' out this dress.